climax

words/cpmaze lettering/jessica gatlyn paintings/zoe bios creative

Eardrum echoes, last dance kisses, and goose bump breath. Your solar-scented skin slips and slides across shoulda woulda beens like back flipping fingers, all fickle flicked, and I dare you to find me or forget me again. I’m not here, but then again you’ve never been all there, so sell me a smooth lie I could curl up with in the corners of your mouth. Swing at every insecurity hurled and fast balled and projected towards you. For you’ve never been one to play games, but you’re damn good at walling up wallow and winning anyway. That’s why curtain calls voicemail miracles in your name.

Our imaginations hump day’d each other into the backwash of a brunched Thursday. We planted our conversations inside the fields of each other’s Irises, getting to the bottom of each other’s beautiful. Squaring up each other’s roots. While watering down colorful margaritas with our top shelf selves, I lost myself in you. Told heartbeat to tell my inner voice to beat the life outta my eardrum with an, If you don’t make it back to me before this night’s over I will throw caution against the patient and smell your sweat back to me. I don’t know who you were in your past life, but I can tell by the way you shoot me shotgun looks you’ve killed many a love’s maybes with the moon’s so what before.

You know how there’s something special about being in a foreign city that allows you be a kid again? Your mouth is that foreign city that allows all of my love sick to become kid again. I stacked and saved up all of my mistakes in past relationships just so I could afford to not make the same mistakes with your skin. If I gave up the fight or flight back to my sober self, sling shoot me down with a whisper and remind me to try again. Golden chairs buckled bath wash. Muted moments screamed for our deepest secrets to be heard by anyone but ourselves. Honesty left used silkworm condoms on the I don’t understand nightstand, with a note that read thanks for the smooth ride. Sincerely, yours. You’re rocky times. Water colored brush sickles fell up from the ground.

Can I lay by your side and wrap whispers around the symphony of your rib cage? I want to sleep with the lights on in your conscious. Could you see the I’m yours in my hellos. Sense all sheet music when I’m around you. Linen listen to me, lay paradise down into the parade of passion floating waves across veined streets of loneliness. We’ve both fucked our way across burning bridges before. So this time shouldn’t be as difficult as your downtrodden upbeat crooked-long bowlegged orgasm that never learned to shoot straight or narrow anyway. I want nothing more than to grasp at the god given ghost haunting your hipbones but that can only happen if you learn to let go of your past and hold onto me. And by me I mean now. And by now I mean love. I don’t wanna wait for the shallow water to run deep.

Oh swift kick universe chinny chin chinning above the tree tops, I know your alarm clocks are made out of recycled human beings, falling in and out of love not making a sound. ‘Tis the season of saltshakers and save your wounds for the thrift stores that were born wanting to live here. We should never try to perfect the double-dutch decker of chess-bored checkered front yard lawns. Somewhere, someday, soon is going to explode. Tourist tickle, I miss you. I miss the tender of skin between your left-hand fingers holding mine. I’ve never kissed a guitar rift as smooth as 3 forevers and 2 fuck yeahs crying in the rain. Backwards forward guitar progression of fire licks and I can’t read palms, but best believe I’ve studied the cracked plastic baby dolls in yours.

The sky looks pissed. The raindrops are tossing up their graduation hats into a cloudy horizon of the future bright, and it is yours. I could smell the limit to your love across the careless truth or dare that’s become my name. Have you ever seen a whisper fall in slow motion? Have you ever read a smile that’s only been considered a foreign language? Your wrists are out of place caterpillars that crawl across the save me from hitting the road to nowhere again. Or hitting the brick wall of your I can’t afford to let you in close to me. And that’s okay. It really is. It’s really the only reason I stayed up so late last night in my prison stitching together all of the dirty laundry we’ve both acquired. I used the tattered battered bed sheets and bleached worn hearts ripped from sleeves and climbed out of the window of why not just stay filthy. I want to run through fresh cut grass in bowls and drink lovers spit until liquor stores open up. Lewd and crass. Sensual and organic. Obscene and salacious Crayola-purple silence, a Jesus drink special you’ve become.

We both laughed like hallelujah hipbones, like hippy hypocrisy, as we contemplated the silliness of how the word “Mistletoe” sounds like a deadly walk. We pressed the red buttons. Answered our cell phones. And spoke smoke signals into the carbon silk of the night. These eyes are wondering why in the hell are your thighs wasting my precious time. Your mortal mouth makes angels butterfly with envy. Hopping tadpoles dance in our premature ways of skipping away from difficult questions. Let’s let the sensitive skin behind our knees determine who pays for dinner tonight. I would love to go tabletop dutch on a charge card dream and sign the receipt whoever in the hell you want me to be. Hand woven scarves glass slipper liquid into the impossible of you. While an autumn of apple martinis make up their minds to prom night themselves into the perfumed cologne festival of fingernails and moonshine. Too lost to turn back. Too passionate to turn down the sheet music.

Confession: tomorrow’s just one second away.

Confession: y(our) collar bone’s been nominated for a religious doctrine.

Confession: your kind of surreal shouldn’t be acceptable in any Adam apples

court of law.

Unwrap my teeth and allow me to be any light switch in your home. I promise you hugs until fears go down easy. Drive ashtrays through wine bottles until my baby sounds like a good enough rest stop to sleep in. You’re a water lily dew, air crafty bubble bath, across airbags. Always betting on right now. You’re a stay with me until you’re an all I need. You’re a let’s not parking lot. You’re a let’s Tokyo drift donuts around halos. Fortune’s an overpriced fish bowl prescription with a sunflower for a stigmatism. Instead can we just focus on each other’s got damn I love your natural language tongue. When the distance goes hitchhikers sundown; thumb heartbeats across country cheekbones. Our laughs went half on the gas. The epic dawn drove seat belts across backstroking faith. Drove seat belts across the find any another other good reason to doubt this moment. Living sounds like a pretty good place for us to hang our always scared on. It ain’t perfect picture puzzle pieces of skin. Just sexual cake batter spoons hiring any part-time tongue to mop up our floors.

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FOUR is a keepsake publication created to showcase timeless imagery and creativity.
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